


What's Wrong With Spiders?

by malinaldarose (coralysendria)



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies), Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Community: trope_bingo, F/M, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:58:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralysendria/pseuds/malinaldarose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times (plus one) that Ethan Hunt and Natasha Romanoff encountered one another over the years.  Spoilers for most of the Mission Impossible movies (especially the third and fourth ones).</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Wrong With Spiders?

I.

Ethan Hunt smiled too much, Natasha decided before she had even known him for three minutes. It was an attractive smile, she conceded, but when it became a full-on grin, it turned Hunt into the village idiot. Their meeting, in a modestly upscale restaurant, was designed to look like a first date; perhaps that was why he was smiling so much.

"So," Ethan murmured, after the waiter had taken their drink orders, "what can the IMF do for SHIELD?"

"Surely you had a briefing?" she said, glancing down at her folded hands with a shy smile of her own.

He laughed. "Of course I did," he responded. "But they only told me what I was supposed to do. They didn't tell me why SHIELD wanted IMF in the first place."

She looked back up from her hands. Her eyes sparkled with warmth. "You know who I am?"

He nodded. "I do: the infamous Black Widow."

The waiter brought their drinks, and Natasha sipped from hers. She had no illusions here, and she wanted to make sure that Hunt knew what was expected of him.

When the waiter was out of earshot, she answered Hunt's question. "SHIELD wants IMF on this specifically because of me. They want to make sure that I'm not going to turn, and since it was a SHIELD agent who originally brought me in, they want someone who will not hesitate to kill me if necessary." She glanced at him coyly. "You won't hesitate, will you?"

He laughed again. "That's pretty much what I thought," he admitted. "We'll have to play it by ear, I guess, since they ought to know that I don't leave people behind. Maybe they should've called in MI-6; gotten Bond instead."

Natasha made a derisive noise. "Bond is just as bad. No, they called you because of what happened with your mentor."

For the first time, his smiled dimmed. "I see. That's...."

"Cold," Natasha said. "And I'm sorry. But that's how they think, and you need to understand that."

Hunt nodded. "All right, then. We can at least enjoy dinner before we start, right?"

Natasha shrugged. "No point in wasting good food."

~*~*~

It went wrong, of course, though not in the way SHIELD expected. It was an embassy party, practically routine in their field of endeavor, but Natasha could see that Hunt was remembering another embassy party that had begun simply enough (for IMF, anyway), and ended with him framed for the deaths of his entire team, disavowed, and on the run from IMF. Despite that, he was concentrating on getting what they had come for, another in an interminable set of lists -- why was it always lists? -- when he was surprised in a room where he wasn't supposed to be. Natasha was already heading for the ladies room where she had earlier stashed her gear when she heard through the comm the short, vicious struggle, a sharp intake of breath that had to have come from Hunt, and a body hitting the floor. She paused.

"Is he dead?" Natasha heard. And, "Who is he?" And then, "It's a mask!"

Thirty seconds later, the comm went dead; in another thirty seconds, they would be looking for the "attaché's" blonde accomplice.

Two minutes after that, Natasha was in the ventilation system. Wearing a much more practical outfit, her wig and gown abandoned in the bathroom's trash bin, her distinctive red hair now covered by a dark wig, she crawled through the ducts. Betting both that Hunt was wounded and likely unconscious, and that they hadn't yet had a chance to move him, she headed in the direction of the office where he had been caught, reflecting on the irony of having to rescue the man who was supposed to put a bullet in her if she showed any signs of reverting to her former allegiances. She wished that Hunt hadn't deemed this a simple enough matter to forego the regular IMF team.

She approached the office as quietly as she could. The vent cover had already been loosened, though whether that was Hunt's handiwork or a lazy maintenance worker, Natasha couldn't guess. Nevertheless, she'd take the favor. She peered carefully into the office. Yes, there was Hunt, slack-limbed on the floor, pale, shockingly bright blood staining his white shirt. She hadn't heard a shot over the comm; he must have been stabbed. She could see one man in the room, but assumed there had to be another. She looked back at Hunt's face...and saw that he was awake, and aware of her presence, though he appeared just as deeply unconscious as she was positive he had been a moment before. 

He twitched, visibly.

"He's coming around," the man in her view said. 

Hunt groaned. His eyes opened, but remained unfocused. He moved his hands weakly, but didn't lift them from the floor.

Another man stepped into view, and leaned over the downed agent. Hunt's eyes rolled toward her and back, then closed. 

"I don't think he's going to make it."

Natasha kicked out the vent and slid into the room. Both guards turned toward her and Hunt's eyes snapped open. He kicked out; the guy leaning over him went down. That's all she saw before the other guy was on her; she jabbed her bracer into his neck and activated it, and was moving toward Hunt's attacker before her guy had even hit the floor, but her intervention was unnecessary. 

Hunt collapsed back onto the floor, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. Natasha did not at all like his color, nor the fact that fresh blood stained his shirt.

"Ethan," she said sharply. It was the first time she had used his given name. His eyes opened. "How badly are you hurt?"

He waved a hand. "I'm okay." He rolled onto his side, and shoved himself up. He got his feet under him, but listed against the wall, his left arm clutching his side. "We've got to get out of here." 

"Did you get it?"

He nodded. "I was on my way out, actually."

"Well you're not going out the way I came in," Natasha said practically. "Not with that." She nodded at the wound. She reviewed the building plan she had committed to memory. This room was not an official office, but a private study in the residential wing. There were three manned checkpoints between them and the nearest exit. They might manage to get through one, but would never clear all three, especially with Hunt bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig. She didn't think they were likely to pull off the drunken lovers routine, either, not with the guards alerted to their incursion. That left the ventilation system or the window, and Natasha didn't like the idea of Hunt passing out in the ductwork.

"Window?" she asked lightly.

Hunt eyed the vent, and she could see him running the odds. "Window," he agreed.

She stepped up to the window and peered out. As yet, no general alarm had been raised. The reception still went on. They were on the third floor, facing the gardens; once they got down there, drunken lovers -- or some variant thereof -- would probably work. Natasha retrieved her small pack.

Hunt was still sagging alarmingly against the wall. "Are you sure you can do this?" she asked.

He nodded, tight-lipped, and pushed himself away from the wall. Natasha opened the window and affixed the rappeling line from her pack. Despite his wound, Hunt, when he started to move, moved decisively. He did not hesitate at the window, but was down the line and on the ground in a few seconds. He disappeared into the garden. Natasha removed the line, stuffed it back into her pack, closed the window, hoisted herself back into the vent and pulled the cover back into place. She ascertained that there was no one in the bathroom, lowered herself back into it, and pulled a third change of clothes from her pack. She left the bathroom clad in a black outfit designed not to draw attention, her dark hair drawn back into an efficient French twist. 

She made her oblique way to the garden exit. Hunt was waiting for her on a bench, his tuxedo jacket closed over his bloodstained shirt. 

Leaving the party turned out to be the easiest part of the evening; they simply walked out the front gate. Several blocks away, they mingled with a crowd of theater-goers and were able to hail a cab. Natasha named an address a few blocks away from a SHIELD safehouse, and by midnight, had arranged for evac.

~*~*~

Natasha was sitting in a chair beside the bed when Hunt woke. The wound had been much more serious than he had let on, but she had expected as much, and was not surprised. "Stubborn bastard," was the doctor's opinion.

This time, she was watching, and she saw the way he woke, and held himself to stillness, assessing the situation before he let on that he was awake. Had she not been watching, she knew she would have missed it. 

"You're safe," she said softly. "You're in a SHIELD infirmary. The Secretary and Director Fury have both been apprised of our whereabouts."

He relaxed minutely and opened his eyes. "That could have gone better."

She nodded. "Probably. I don't recall you getting stabbed being part of the plan."

He frowned. "No, I don't remember it being in there, either. Well, sometimes you have to improvise."

"Perhaps next time you'll improvise something that doesn't include you nearly bleeding to death," Natasha said.

He shrugged, frowning a bit as the movement pulled his stitches. "As long as you're around, it'll be all right." 

"Ah, but I won't be around," she said. "IMF's dental plan isn't as good as SHIELD's. Unless you were planning to come work for us?"

Hunt chuckled. "No, I guess I'm good where I'm at."

The door opened then, and a nurse stuck his head in. "Agent Romanoff? Agent Barton is waiting for you."

She nodded.

"Off already?" Hunt asked.

"Yes. It was nice working with you, Agent Hunt."

"Likewise, Agent Romanoff."

 

II.

Natasha Romanoff, Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow, did not often find herself in situations from which she could not extricate herself. Occasionally, though, something would happen for which she was in no way prepared. It was simply the way of the world, she thought with a fatalistic shrug. Like now, when she found herself lounging on a heap of fake furs in her underwear. Or, not _her_ underwear, precisely, just what she had been given for the photo shoot.

She was beginning to consider getting up to find a robe -- it wasn't exactly _warm_ in here -- when the photographer bustled in.

"So sorry to keep you waiting; I couldn't get a cab. Why we're doing this in this god-forsaken country, I will never know. Still, I suppose this is as good a place as any to get started, eh?" He extended a hand, but even with the cheek pads, glasses and false whiskers, she recognized that village-idiot grin of his. "Edward Dawson."

Natasha shook Ethan Hunt's hand delicately. "Natalie Rushman. Pleased to meet you."

He winked at her. Despite the facial hair, he hadn't changed much in the years since she had last seen him. He smiled a bit less, and when he did, his smile was harder around the edges. She hadn't really been keeping up with him, but she knew that he had suffered losses.

He was good, she had to give him that. He knew what he was doing with the camera, and he directed her as though he'd been a fashion photographer all his life. But then, she moved as though she'd been a model all her life; it was the nature of their business. 

"So, Miss Rushman," he said, as she finally shrugged into a robe. "Would you care to join me for a drink?"

She smiled demurely at him, as though she hadn't just spent two hours rolling around in her underwear in front of him. "I would be delighted. Are you staying nearby?"

He named his hotel, and she agreed to meet him there for drinks in an hour.

Precisely an hour later, she stepped into the hotel's bar. He was already there, nursing something warm and golden. He smiled as she joined him. "Natalie! How are you finding Tokyo?"

She shrugged eloquently. "It has its charms."

"You being chief among them," he answered just a trifle over-gallantly.

She raised a brow at him. "Are you drunk, Edward?"

"Not quite," he responded. He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. "Should I be concerned that you're here?"

She shook her head. "I'm here because they needed a redhead for this shoot. If there's any other reason no one has made me aware of it."

"Are you planning to stay in Japan for a while?"

"I have no definite plans. I'll be here until they need a redhead somewhere else, I suppose."

"I see." He sipped his drink.

She scooted toward him on the rounded banquette seat of the booth and put her arms around his neck. "Ethan," she said softly, her lips hidden by his hair. _Always assume you're being watched._ "I am here to establish Natalie Rushman. Nothing more. This was where they could get me a modeling gig, so this was where I came."

He turned his head into her neck. "Thank you. I needed to know."

She pulled back and smiled. "Will I see you again?"

He shrugged. "Only time will tell, Natalie."

Natasha was completely unsurprised the following morning to learn that her photographer was missing, and so was one of the make-up artists. They were replaced quickly enough, and the shoot went on without them.

 

III.

Ethan stared incredulously. He had barely finished explaining the IMF and what he did for that agency to his wife when he was suddenly, surprisingly, face-to-face with a SHIELD operative. She stood at the other end of the bridge, her face tense, her eyes on the river's opposite shore.

"Natasha?"

"Ethan. And this is Julia? Congratulations, by the way."

"Thank you. Natasha, what are you doing here? And how did you know that we were married?"

"You made a rather big splash night before last, Ethan, and your team spilled their collective guts when they were interrogated. Because of the mole, the Secretary was reluctant to send in another IMF team, so he called in a favor from Director Fury. I was in the area, so here I am."

_"Interrogated?"_

She looked at him, and seemed, for the first time, to take in his condition. The only reason he wasn't holed up in a heap somewhere was apprehensively clinging to his arm. He was standing for Julia's sake. Keeping the Rabbit's Foot, whatever the hell it was, safe wouldn't have kept him on his feet this long after what he had just been through...and even Julia wasn't likely to keep him upright much longer. Though he would hide that fact from his wife as long as he possibly could, Natasha saw through his pretense. 

Her face softened minutely. "They haven't been disavowed, if that's what you're worried about. They were taken into immediate custody as soon as they landed so that they couldn't do anything stupid. They're fine, and they're waiting for you. Frankly, the only one in danger of being disavowed was you, Ethan."

"Which would not have displeased SHIELD," he said flatly.

She grinned. "You know it wouldn't have. SHIELD wants to recruit you just as much as anyone else. Speaking of which, did you hear that there's a new Bond? Cold bastard. Not at all as nice as his predecessor."

"Tell me SHIELD didn't recruit his predecessor."

Natasha's grin widened. "Now you know I can't tell you that, Ethan. Come on. The two of you really need to get off the streets."

Beside him, Ethan felt Julia start to tremble with delayed reaction; no matter how much strength and bravery she had displayed earlier, she had been in no way prepared for what he had demanded of her. But first....

"Julia, let me introduce my colleague Natasha Romanoff. Natasha, my wife, Julia Hunt."

"Nice to meet you," Julia said. "You don't work _with_ Ethan, then?"

Natasha shook her head. "No. I work for a different agency, but Ethan and I have run into one another a few times, and we did work together once, several years ago."

Ethan took both of Julia's hands. "It's all right, Julia. I would trust Natasha with my life, but more importantly, I would trust her with yours." He wondered when he had made the decision that Natasha was that worthy of his trust, and decided it had to have been when she had not abandoned him at the embassy all those years back.

Julia stared at him intently for a few moments, then nodded. She looked over his shoulder at Natasha. "He really should go to a hospital," she said.

Natasha nodded and started to walk. She led them over a few streets to where she had left a car; by the time they reached it, Ethan was beginning to stumble. Natasha looked at him closely as he waited for Julia to crawl into the backseat. "We have a bit of a drive, Ethan," she said softly. "Are you going to hold it together for your wife, or do I need to give her the hold-it-together-for-you speech?"

Ethan answered, equally softly, "An hour ago, she electrocuted me to short circuit the explosive in my head, Natasha. Then she shot two bad guys and still gave me CPR. I think she'll be okay."

Natasha stared at him. "Jesus, Ethan," she said. "You're not easy on people, are you."

He shrugged. "Can you tell me that you are?"

Her mouth quirked. "Get in the car. There are medics waiting."

 

IV.

After the Davian debacle, Ethan felt that he owed Julia the most romantic trip he could come up with, and that meant Paris, of course. It took six months before all the loose ends from that unexpected trip to China were tied off, and that took them into winter, and Ethan figured at that point, they might as well wait for spring. 

So it was that they strolled hand-in-hand down the Champs Elysées, enjoying the May sunshine. Julia was enchanted. They marveled at the Mona Lisa, went to the top of the Eiffel Tower, saw the gargoyles at Nôtre Dame de Paris. Ethan had, of course, been to Paris dozens of times, but he had never been there just to enjoy himself. Now there was no team, no voices in his ear, no diving headfirst from tall places, no running, no guns. There was only Julia's excitement, her laughter, and, in their hotel room, the soft touch of her hands. 

Ethan came to understand why Paris was known as a haven for lovers.

Very early on the penultimate day of their stay, Ethan eased himself out of bed, leaving Julia asleep, her arm curved on his pillow, a small smile on her face. He gazed at her, struck again by how much he loved her. He leaned over and kissed her softly. "Where are you going?" she murmured.

"Just for a run. I'll be back before you're up," he replied.

"Mmm. Shopping later, yes?"

He smiled. "Yes."

"'kay." And she pulled his pillow to herself and went back to sleep.

It was barely dawn; the streetlights were still lit. Even though it was May, Ethan's breath hung in the air as he decided which way to go. Ingrained habits dictated that his morning run never followed the same route twice. Never be predictable. Predictability was death, and even this lovers idyll could not change that.

His route took him along the Seine. Paris's streets were yet empty; the only sounds were his footfalls and quiet breathing. He enjoyed the stillness, until it was broken by the sound of muffled gunshots, breaking glass, and someone running in his direction. The river here was bounded by a retaining wall built of rough bricks. Without even thinking about it, Ethan had hoisted himself over the rail and was clinging to the side of the wall, watching the street along the river.

A woman ran from a nearby alley; dark-clad, she was visible mainly because of the way her richly red hair gleamed in the light of the street lamp at the alley's mouth. She ran straight for the river as four men followed after, shooting wildly, and Ethan recognized Natasha Romanoff. He had no time to wonder if she had backup because she reached the wall, and flung herself over. Silhouetted by the light of a streetlamp across the river, she seemed to fly for a moment. Then Ethan saw the blood spray from the bullets that struck her, saw her hit the water badly, and go down. He held his own breath, counting seconds, hoping that she was swimming away under water, but then her body surfaced, her face down, her red hair floating like seaweed around her.

Her pursuers reached the wall, arguing over whether or not to fish her out when distant sirens heralded the arrival of the police. One of them swore viciously, another spat into the river, and the four of them turned and loped off. Ethan hauled himself back up to the top of the wall, turned, and dove into the river, in one smooth motion. He surfaced within an arm's length of Natasha, flipped her over so her face was out of the water, and started swimming.

Suddenly, she thrashed in his hold, and nearly slipped away. "Natasha!" he said sharply. "It's Ethan Hunt. You're all right."

She relaxed against him. "Ethan. I thought I saw you and your wife the other day. Enjoying Paris?"

"Clearly not as much as you are. Can you swim on your own for a bit?"

"I...yes. Until we can find a place to get out of the river. Police?"

"On their way. Do you have backup?"

"Not close enough."

"I saw you get hit. I'm taking you back to my hotel. Julia will patch you up and we can call for evac."

She hesitated, but then nodded. "Okay." She didn't say anything more, and Ethan released her. It wasn't far to the nearest landing, and Ethan angled toward it. 

"No," Natasha said. "I can make the next one."

Ethan took her at her word; the next one was closer to the hotel and out of the likely range of the police's initial search. Natasha reached the landing, and managed to pull herself out of the water, but that was as far as she got; she collapsed onto the stone paving of the walkway, her magnificent hair hiding her face.

Ethan crouched next to her, reaching out to roll her over. "I'm okay," she said before he made contact. She levered herself onto her side. "I just...need a second."

He glanced at the sky. "We don't have a lot of time."

"I know. I'm...going to need help, Ethan." 

He had a feeling he knew how much it cost her to admit that. "I'm going to carry you up to the street; we'll go from there."

She nodded.

He picked her up; even soaking wet, she was no great burden. She sucked in a breath when he jostled her wounds, but there was no help for that. He climbed the stairs; away in the distance behind them, he could see the strobing lights of the police cars. He glanced up again. The sky was blue and the street lamps had long since gone out, but down among the buildings, it was still dim. 

He didn't even bother to consult Natasha, just set out in as straight a line as possible for the hotel. At this point, they were only a few blocks away. She tried to stay with him, but every so often, her head lolled against his shoulder. He set his jaw and walked firmly on. They were within sight of the hotel when he stopped.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Almost there," he answered. "If I put you down, can you walk at least as far as the elevator?"

"Yes."

He set her on her feet, wrapped her arm around his, and they set off. Her dark clothing mostly disguised her wounds, but he couldn't do much to disguise the fact that she wasn't the woman the hotel staff was accustomed to seeing with him. Luck, however, seemed to be with them, because when they entered the lobby, the concierge was engaged with another guest, and they reached the elevators without being noticed.

Natasha leaned heavily against the elevator wall, her eyes closed. Then, just as the bell announced their floor, she sighed, and sagged. Ethan caught her, swung her into his arms, and carried her to the door of his and Julia's suite. He banged the door with his foot rather than trying to get to the key in his pocket. He heard Julia's gasp when she peered through the peephole.

"The couch, Jules," he ordered, as she closed the door behind him. "Clear the couch, please."

"Is that--?"

"Yes. She's wounded."

"Most men bring home puppies, Ethan." Julia's expression was wry as she shoved their belongings off the couch onto the floor. To her credit, she didn't ask why Ethan had brought Natasha to her instead of to a hospital. "Wait. Let me get some towels." She disappeared into the bathroom and came back out with a couple of the hotel's luxurious bath sheets and covered the couch in them, then covered those in a sheet grabbed from the bed. Ethan gently set Natasha down.

Julia smoothed the other woman's hair back from her face. "Why is she wet? Why are you both wet?" 

"We went swimming."

"Voluntarily?"

"Not so much."

Julia sighed. "All right. Ethan, go get dry. I'm going to need more towels to start with." As she took Natasha's wrist to get her pulse, the spy's eyelids fluttered. "Natasha, can you hear me? Are you awake? It's Julia Hunt, Natasha."

"Hi," Natasha whispered. "Nice to see you again."

"Likewise. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"

"Paris," Natasha answered, and smiled a bit at Julia's involuntary laugh. "Gunshots. Right side. Maybe back?"

"You understand that I'm not a doctor, Natasha? You're still going to need to go to a hospital."

"Later. Promise."

"Should I try to salvage your clothes, or just cut you out of them?"

"Cut."

Julia nodded. "Okay. I'm going to send Ethan out to get some supplies, all right? Just rest here for a moment."

Natasha nodded, and her eyes closed.

Julia went to the desk and pulled out a piece of paper. She wrote out a quick list; when she finished, Ethan was waiting for her. She jumped. "Don't do spy things at me, Ethan!"

"Sorry. Shopping list?"

"Yes. You shouldn't have any trouble getting any of this stuff."

"Right. Back soon. Take care of her, Jules? I owe her my life."

Julia nodded. "Of course."

By the time Ethan got back with the supplies, Julia had stripped Natasha of her wet clothes, ascertained where the wounds were and how serious, and covered her in blankets. The hotel was going to have a fit when they saw the bloodied towels and sheets.

"How is she?" Ethan asked as he came in the door.

"She's been unconscious since you left, but she's okay for now." Julia took the shopping bags and emptied them out onto the floor. She had set a small decorative table near the couch, and she methodically placed everything on the table in the order in which she was going to need it, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves. "Open those packages, would you?"

After that, she was too busy to pay attention to Ethan. She cleaned and disinfected Natasha's wounds. Most were superficial, and those, she bandaged, but one was going to need surgery, for which Julia was neither prepared nor qualified. All she could do was clean it, pack it with gauze and bandage it.

At last, she sat back on her heels. "Done."

"Will she be all right?"

Julia shrugged. She got to her feet and pulled off the blood-covered gloves, dropping them into the waste basket. The hotel room was beginning to resemble a television murder scene. "She needs a hospital. I can see that she's not going to get one. So...what do we do now? Can we call her people? Can we call yours?"

"We'll do both," Ethan decided. "I'm going to need your phone."

She raised a brow. "Mine? You're going to do super secret spy stuff with _my_ phone? Where's yours?"

He shrugged. "At the bottom of the Seine."

"Do you know how much that phone cost me, Ethan Hunt?"

"Yes, Julia Hunt. I do. I'm a spy. I know everything."

She rolled her eyes, but retrieved her phone from her bag.

Ethan put the phone on speaker and thumbed in a number. "Benjamin Dunne," a voice answered.

"Benji, it's Ethan."

"Ethan! How's Paris? Are you and Julia having fun?"

"We're having all sorts of fun, Benji," Julia called.

"You're on speaker, Benji," Ethan said belatedly. "Listen, I need a private patch to SHIELD. Can you do that for me?"

"I _can_ , mate, but why on earth would I?"

"I seem to have acquired something of theirs," Ethan replied.

"Can't you just go on a vacation like a normal person, Ethan? Right, then. Any idea who you need to talk to?"

Ethan looked blank for a moment; he didn't really remember much of his time in SHIELD medical, and it had been short, besides. He looked at Julia, but she shrugged.

"Coulson. You need to speak to Coulson." Julia turned and hurried back to the couch. Natasha was awake, but very pale; her hair blazed against the blue-white pallor of her skin.

"Agent Coulson, Benji."

"All right, Ethan. Hang on, patching you through."

The line crackled a bit, then, "Coulson," a voice said.

"Agent Coulson? This is Ethan Hunt."

If this Agent Coulson was surprised, he kept it from his voice. "Yes, Agent Hunt? What can I do for you?"

"My wife tells me," Ethan said conversationally, "that most men bring home stray puppies. It seems that she objects to spiders."

"Most people do, I have found," Coulson said. "Why did you bring your wife a spider, may I ask?"

"My wife's a nurse, you know."

"I see." There was a moment of silence, then, "I can be there in two hours."

"We'll be waiting."

"You don't like spiders?" Natasha said from the couch.

Julia shrugged. "Not really. What have spiders got to do with it?"

Natasha laughed weakly. "Everything."

 

V.

Over the course of the next two years, Julia was kidnapped three times. The number of threats, however, was considerably higher, nor were those threats made just against Julia, but also against her family. Those, Ethan kept to himself. It was clear word had leaked out that IMF's lead agent had a weak spot. 

When they returned from Paris, Ethan had noticed something in Julia's eyes, something disquieting. He put it down to the stressful way that their vacation ended, but then she was kidnapped again. Ethan got her back within twelve hours, but for days afterward, she looked haunted. After the second time, she asked him for a gun, and shooting lessons, and he thought his heart would break for his gentle wife.

The third time, they were on vacation in Croatia. It was a far more unexpected site for a vacation than Paris or Venice which, Ethan hoped, would make it safer. After a few days, the shadow seemed to lift from Julia's eyes. Though Ethan had long since lost any belief in the religion he had been raised in, he nevertheless breathed a prayer of thanks.

He had chosen a very exclusive hotel for their stay, the sort where the staff is unobtrusive but always watching in order to be of immediate service. He felt safe enough, therefore, when he woke with a need to burn off excess energy, to go for a run. He kissed Julia, who sleepily murmured, "Try not to bring back any wounded secret agents this time, okay?"

He laughed. "I'll do my best. I won't be long."

"Okay."

His route did not take him near a river, but through empty streets that would bustle with tourists later. He could tell from the way they dressed that the few other people he saw running were tourists. He nodded to those he passed: no reason to be unfriendly. As he jogged, he allowed his mind to go blank. Concentrate on footsteps. On breathing. On the air. On the....

He began to have the feeling of eyes on his back. He tried to tell himself that he was being paranoid, that there were other joggers out, but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. And if someone was watching _him_ , then Julia was in danger. 

His immediate instinct was to bolt for the hotel, but training and experience squelched instinct. Instead, he carried on to the end of the block, crossed the street and started back to the hotel as though that had been his intention all along. He wasn't far away. Across the street, a fellow jogger was doing stretches up against a wall, his back to Ethan and the street. For a moment, Ethan thought he'd seen the man somewhere before, but he was probably just a guest at the hotel. 

Nevertheless, Ethan gradually began to increase his pace, and when he passed a window that was angled just right, looked back. The man jogged on in the opposite direction, and Ethan sternly told himself to get a grip.

All was serene when he reached the hotel. No alarms, no police, nothing. He laughed at himself and got in the elevator. He was still shaking his head at his overreaction when he realized the door of the room was slightly ajar.

The room was wrecked, and there were two guys on the floor. Of Julia, there was no sign. Icy fingers grabbed Ethan's gut and _twisted_. Old fears surfaced: fear that Julia was already dead, or that they would kill her before he could reach her, or worse. He took a deep breath and pushed the emotion away. It was not helping. He needed to be Agent Hunt now, not the panicked husband.

The two unconscious guys actually had IDs that named them as Americans. Moreover, they each carried Consolidated Insurance business cards.

"...the fuck?" Ethan whispered to the IMF agents as he tossed their wallets on the floor. Whatever. It didn't matter at the moment; he'd find out what was going on later. Right now, he needed to find Julia. He took the agents' guns and spare clips, then stripped the room bare of anything he might need. The rest, including the majority of his and Julia's luggage, he left.

He walked out into the street just as the jogger he had suspected of following him entered the lobby by the side door. Had Ethan not been so focused, he might have noticed Agent Brandt and certain future events might have gone very differently. But neither man saw the other, nor would they meet again until the day a maniac bombed the Kremlin.

Ethan walked quickly away from the hotel. There was no point involving the local police. He would have to move fast to get Julia back, and he was suddenly wary of IMF. He could _hope_ that a team had been assigned for their safety, given the threats so far, but he couldn't be positive, and so he would, instead, call on one of the few people he knew he _could_ trust.

~*~*~

Three hours later, as Ethan sat on a park bench watching pigeons, Natasha settled next to him.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he answered. "Thanks for coming."

She shrugged. "I owe you both. Fortunately, I was in the neighborhood."

Ethan stared at her incredulously, and a little suspiciously. "You were in Croatia?"

She shook her head. "No, Monaco."

"For the Grand Prix?"

"Yes, actually. But not for fun; I was on an assignment."

"One which she will have to be getting back to as soon as we have solved your problem, Agent Hunt."

Ethan tensed only briefly before he recognized Agent Coulson's voice. Not only had they spoken on the phone in Paris, but Coulson himself had come to the hotel to collect the wounded Natasha. Ethan had managed to conceal his surprise at Coulson's appearance; he would have marked the man as an accountant until they shook hands and felt the gun callouses on Coulson's palm.

"Coulson, you should know better than to sneak up on people," Natasha said, rolling her head back to look at him upside down.

"And you should know better than to leave your assignment without reporting to your handler, Agent Romanoff. It makes people twitchy." Coulson walked around the bench to stand in front of the other two agents. He was impeccably dressed in a very expensive suit. Ethan, dressed in nondescript jeans and t-shirt, felt under dressed.

Natasha shrugged. "I knew you'd find out where I was. Did you also find out where Julia is?"

"We did. Agent Barton is watching them." The mild-seeming man raised a restraining hand as Ethan made to leap up from the bench. "Easy, Agent Hunt. You can't just go bursting in there; there are at least a dozen of them."

"How do you know that? They haven't even made contact with me, yet."

"They will. But as it happens, SHIELD has been keeping an eye on these people for a while."

"Who are they?"

"Serbian assassins. They want you, Agent Hunt."

Ethan closed his eyes. Of course they did. "They didn't need to grab Julia, then. They could have had me this morning without involving her at all."

Coulson took a seat on the bench, on Ethan's other side. "Ah, but they want Julia as well. They were loyal associates of Owen Davian's, and as far as they're concerned, Julia is just as guilty of his death as you are."

"Why now? Davian's been dead for two years."

"Because you're here," Natasha said simply, "where they can reach you both easily."

"Does IMF know?"

"Why do you think they put a team on the two of you while you were on a vacation, Ethan?" 

"Then we need to get back to the hotel to coordinate with the agents there."

"Actually," Coulson said, "we need to avoid them. The kidnappers will expect you to go to them. While the Serbs are watching the IMF agents, we'll be sneaking up on the Serbs. All nice and neat."

Ethan leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, then scrubbed his hands over his face. He sat that way, his head bowed for a moment, knowing that the two SHIELD agents were undoubtedly eyeing each other over his bent back.

Around them, the pigeons went on with their business of cadging as much food as they could from other people in the park. In the distance, a group of boys was playing ball, shouting and laughing. It was barely midmorning, Ethan realized.

"This is going to keep happening, Ethan," Natasha said bluntly. "You know that, right? _You_ are the reason that Julia is in danger."

"Do you honestly think I don't know that?" Ethan didn't bother to hide the tremor in his voice. He knew Natasha well enough to know that she would hear it anyway. "She isn't safe while we're together."

He looked up at Natasha, who was watching him intently. Her eyebrow quirked. He slowly straightened as the implication of his own words hit him. He closed his eyes against the pain in his chest, then opened them again. His jaw hardened, and he nodded once, sharply.

"So what do we do?" he asked. "If SHIELD is watching, does SHIELD have a plan?"

"As it happens," Coulson answered, "we do." He handed Ethan a small mp3 player.

Ethan put the earbuds in his ears and pressed play.

"Good morning, Agent Hunt...."

~*~*~

The mission, as it turned out, was very simple and one that Ethan couldn't possibly not choose to accept: rescue his wife, then get himself committed to Rankow Prison in order to look for agents of a nuclear extremist code-named Cobalt; it was possible that the Serbians were working for him now, as well. If possible, he was to get into Cobalt's organization in order to unmask him or her. In return, SHIELD would hide Julia. Only their Director, the Secretary, and Agent Coulson would know where she was. Not even he and the other two SHIELD agents would know. It was the SHIELD equivalent of the Witness Protection program, and it was the only way to keep Julia safe. Ethan would never have agreed to such a thing, except for the growing shadow in Julia's eyes. Sooner or later, he was going to lose her, whether because some bad guy finally got lucky, or because she finally had more than she could handle. Luther Stickle, it seemed, was right, after all, Ethan thought, as smoke trickled out of the mp3 player. He'd warned Ethan, warned him that a relationship with a civilian woman could never work, but Ethan had been so confident....

~*~*~

Six hours after Julia had been taken, Ethan's phone buzzed. He answered it, on speaker, immediately. "Hunt."

Ethan was a bit surprised to find that the caller was a woman. "We have your wife, Agent Hunt. You will do exactly as we tell you, yes? Or she dies, yes?"

"I want to talk to her."

"Ethan." 

"Jules! Are you okay? Have they hurt you?"

"I'm okay, Ethan." Julia's voice was surprisingly steady. "I'm a little hungry, though; could you pick me up some doughnuts? I could eat a whole dozen Krispy Kremes."

"I'll see what I can do, Jules. Hang in there, okay?"

"You bring doughnuts for your wife," the woman sounded amused. "You do things right, maybe she even get to eat them, yes?"

"What do you want?"

"We want you, Agent Hunt. You, for your wife. You come to us, we let her live. You come to us, she walks away. I am thinking I do not need to tell you no police, no IMF."

"No police," Ethan agreed. "No IMF. Where and when?"

The woman gave him an address well outside the city. "Two hours, Agent Hunt. To give you time to buy some doughnuts." The call disconnected.

"Doughnuts?" Coulson asked.

"She was telling us how many there are," Ethan said wearily. "A whole dozen." 

"That tallies with what Clint has been able to see," Natasha said. "Agent Barton," she added at Ethan's quizzical look.

"So...three to one," Ethan said. "I suppose I've seen worse odds."

~*~*~

Two hours later, Ethan walked up the driveway of an innocent-looking farmhouse, a paper bag of pastries -- the bakery hadn't had doughnuts -- in his hand. They would search him, so he was unarmed. The SHIELD comm unit was so tiny it was unlikely to be noticed by any but the most intensive search. He had yet to meet Agent Barton in person -- Natasha explained that he was a sniper -- but the man had kept up a running commentary until Agent Coulson told him to settle down and shut up, at which point he said, "Right, boss. Shutting up, boss. When someone tells me to shut up, I shut up. You don't have to tell me twice."

"Barton," Coulson said with the air of someone who had said the same thing too many times, "You're not Bugs Bunny. Shut up shutting up."

Ethan snorted; Barton reminded him of Jack Harmon, who had been the tech guy on his first IMF team, and who had chattered like a magpie on the comms. As always when he thought of that long-dead team, his jaw tightened, and Natasha's long-ago words came back to him: _"They called you because of what happened with your mentor."_ Because he had killed Jim Phelps, who had betrayed the IMF, he had been assigned to a mission with Natasha Romanoff. And now, all these years later, here was Natasha -- and _her_ team -- helping him to rescue Julia. The world could be a very strange place.

As he stepped into the house's small front garden, the door opened. No one was visible. He walked through the door and it was closed behind him. The house's front room was comfortably furnished, with plaster walls painted in a warm honey shade. The fireplace at one end of the room was empty; stairs on the same wall led up to the second story. A doorway at the opposite end of the room led further into the house.

"So," an amused voice said. "You bring doughnuts for your wife." 

He turned to the woman leaning against the wall by the door. She was of average height, dark-haired, pretty. She bore a passing resemblance to Julia. He was surprised to see that she wasn't pointing a gun at him. Her three friends, on the other hand, were not so polite. He ignored them.

"I'm sure she'd be happy to share, if you're hungry," Ethan replied.

"Let us go ask her," the woman said. She gestured for him to proceed through the doorway.

"This is a nice place," Ethan said conversationally. "Is it yours?"

"It is now," she replied shortly.

The doorway led into a modern kitchen which ran most of the length of the house. Large windows looked out on a neat lawn and kitchen garden. At the far end, near another door which probably led into a pantry, a straight-backed chair had been set. Julia sat there, her hands folded in her lap, a look of mingled fear and anger on her face. They hadn't grabbed her out of bed, and she had put up a fight, to judge by the tears in her t-shirt and jeans. A bruise marked her jaw. Another gunman stood behind her, his weapon trained on her.

"Hey, Jules," Ethan said, ignoring the bruise. "I brought you breakfast."

She looked at him, that shadow back in her eyes, but she lifted her chin and smiled. "Thanks, sweetheart. That was thoughtful of you."

"I saw something on the way here that I thought you'd like," Ethan continued, as if his breakfast conversations with his wife always took place when surrounded by gunmen.

"Oh, yeah?" she said softly, "what was that?"

"Remember that spider we saw in Paris that time? I saw one just like that."

"Oh, ugh, Ethan! You know how much I hate spiders!" But her eyes told him that she'd understood, and he was satisfied.

"Enough talk," the woman said. "Time for you to show us what is in the bag, I think. Come, Agent Hunt. Show us what weapon you have in the bag."

Ethan turned back to her. "No weapon. Just breakfast."

The woman jerked her chin and one of the gunmen strode forward and took the bag from Ethan. He opened it and frowned. "It is as he says. Breakfast."

Ethan shrugged. "It's for Julia. To eat on her way home. You did say that you would trade her for me."

The woman snarled. "I lied. You killed my Owen. I will kill you both for that."

In his ear, a soft whisper sounded. "In position," Natasha said.

Ethan laughed. "Of course you lied. I, however, didn't. No police. No IMF."

The guy with the pastries was still standing near him. Too near him, as it happened. Ethan punched him in the throat. The pastries hit the ground, and so did the guy, choking. Ethan, trusting in his backup, spun, but not _toward_ Julia, as they'd expect, but _away_ from her, into the next gunman. They didn't dare risk firing in the confines of the kitchen, for fear of hitting one another. With his peripheral vision, he saw Julia dive out of her chair and immediately start crawling across the floor in the direction of the heavy oak table. The pantry door opened, and Natasha appeared. Simultaneously, the living room doorway filled with Agent Coulson. 

The dark-haired woman dove for one of the guns on the floor, but then Ethan lost sight of her; he had his hands momentarily full with another bad guy. Suddenly, the kitchen was quiet again, save for the sounds of heavy breathing. Both Natasha and Coulson, though, had their guns drawn and leveled...and he _knew_. He knew it even as he swung around looking for Julia, he knew what he was going to see.

Julia was kneeling on the kitchen floor, the dark-haired woman behind her, a gun held to her head. Absurdly, the pastry bag, surprisingly unsquashed, lay near Julia's left knee.

"So," the woman said, her voice practically thrumming with anger. "You lie, after all. Guns on the floor."

Ethan shook his head, but dropped his gun. Both Natasha and Coulson followed suit. "No," Ethan said. "I said no police and no IMF. I never said anything about SHIELD."

He saw the instant the woman registered that, and then the window shattered, and she collapsed as though her strings had been cut. The gun, still clutched in her hand, clattered dully on the floor.

"Good shot, Barton," Coulson said mildly. "Where are the rest?"

"They're gone," Barton said over the comm. "We know where they're going, though."

"Good."

"We've got this, Agent Hunt," Coulson added. "I know that you're going to want to talk to your wife."

Ethan nodded. He held out his hands to Julia and helped her to her feet. There was blood in her hair, but it wasn't hers, and he didn't think this was the best time to mention it.

"C'mon, Jules." He grabbed the bag, and led Julia out of the kitchen, and straight through the living room (where there were two more bodies) to the porch. Out in the sunshine, he offered her the bag. "Hungry?"

Julia automatically took a pastry from the bag. "Ethan, why...I can't...." She shook her head. "I don't even know what to say right now."

"I know, Jules. I know." He stared at the ground for a moment.

"This is going to keep happening, isn't it." Julia's voice was flat, emotionless. "Ethan.... When we got married, you asked me to trust you, and I do. I always have. But this...it'd be funny, if it were happening to someone else."

"But it keeps happening to you," Ethan said.

She looked at the pastry in her hand and dropped it back in the bag with a moue of distaste, and wiped her fingers on her pants leg. "No, Ethan. It keeps happening to _us_. It _is_ going to keep happening, isn't it, Ethan."

It wasn't really a question, but he answered it, anyway. "Yes. Yeah, it is. I'm sorry, Jules." He hesitated, then went gamely on. "As long as we're together, you'll never be safe. And, Jules, I can't bear the thought of you not being safe, of someday not being able to get to you in time."

Tears spilled down her face. "Ethan, what are you saying?"

"I love you more than my own life, Jules. I want you to understand that. I want to see you safe and happy, and...and there's only one way that I can see to accomplish that." Ethan couldn't see through a blur of tears. "The only way I can keep you safe is to...to not be with you, anymore."

"No, Ethan. We'll find a way...."

He let the tears fall so he could see, and shook his head. "There is no other way, Jules. Look what happened the first time. I wasn't even a field agent, anymore, and they still grabbed you."

"You could leave the IMF, Ethan."

He shook his head. "And do what? Work at WalMart? I tried to give it up before, and look what happened. Sooner or later, I'd come back to it, we both know that. And then you'd be in danger again."

She sniffled. Her head dropped, and her eyes closed. When she looked up again, she was still crying, but she nodded. "What do we do, then?"

"We kill you, Jules. And then I go to prison."

~*~*~

Julia stared out the hotel window. It was getting dark, and she was looking through her own reflection. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower lit up. Paris, again, but this time, it was Natasha sharing a suite with her, not Ethan. It would never be Ethan again. She wondered if he'd been "caught," yet. She wondered if she'd ever know. She wondered if she ought to feel guilty about the men he was pursuing into Russia, and then decided not to think about it. She most decidedly _wasn't_ thinking about the dead woman who was supposed to be her.

"Are you okay?" Natasha's reflection joined her own in the window. She turned around so she didn't have to look out at Paris and remember the last time she'd been here.

She nodded. "Yeah. Or, well, _no_ , but I suppose I will be. Thanks for doing this, Natasha. For helping us."

Natasha shrugged. "I owe both of you."

Julia looked at her thoughtfully. "Couldn't you just do it because we're friends?"

Natasha's lips quirked. "I thought you didn't like spiders."

Julia smiled; the spider thing had been explained to her right here in Paris. "I suppose I could learn to." She sobered again quickly. "He'll be all right, won't he, Natasha?"

"He's one of the most capable men I know," Natasha said. "If anyone can be, it's him."

Julia sighed. That wasn't what she had meant, but she supposed Natasha was right. Ethan would be fine; he had other things to think about right now. She would be fine, too, she knew. It might take a while, but she already felt lighter, safer, even, than she had in a couple of years. What Ethan -- and SHIELD, and even IMF -- was giving her was a huge gift. She mustn't waste it. She turned back to the window and squared her shoulders. Yes. She would be fine.

 

VI.

A phone call. A woman's voice. "So. Saved the world, I hear."

A smile. "So, an Avenger, I hear. What's up with that?"

"The world, as you know, is a strange, strange place."

"It is. To what do I owe the honor?"

"Seattle. She gets off work at 7:30 and on Thursday nights, she goes out for dinner with friends."

His breath hitches; he tries to tell himself it's from the broken ribs. India was only a month ago.

"How is she?"

A pause. "Safe. Happy. She misses you. Her name is Anne Matthews."

He smiles. Their middle names. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Stop grinning like the village idiot and go to Seattle. Just be careful."

The call ends.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Agents Romanoff, Barton, and Coulson, and SHIELD, are the property of Marvel. Agent Hunt and his lovely wife Julia, and the IMF, belong to Paramount. No infringement is intended and no profit will be had hereby.
> 
> 2\. This was written to fill the "presumed dead" square on my Trope Bingo card. Because Julia will eventually be presumed to be dead.... 
> 
> 3\. I threw the mention of James Bond in there for the heck of it. If you accept that SHIELD and IMF occasionally work together, then there's no reason not to think that Bond is in there, too. Also, I rather like the idea that "James Bond" is a title passed from agent to agent rather than an individual, so we'll just ignore _Skyfall_.
> 
> 4\. The timeline toward the end gets a little wibbly-wobbly. When Natasha says she was in Monaco, we can either assume it was with Tony and Pepper during _Iron Man 2_ , or that she had a different mission to Monaco. And for the purposes of the coda, we'll say that _The Avengers_ took place while Ethan was in Rankow Prison. Just because there are aliens and superheroes running about doesn't mean that covert operatives are out of business. Also, if _The Incredible Hulk_ , _Iron Man 2_ , and _Thor_ can all be released in different years, but take place during the same week, then the events depicted in _Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol_ (2011) can take place _after_ the events of _The Avengers_ (2012). So there.
> 
> 5\. And, as always, thank you to the lovely Bethynyc, for the beta.


End file.
